


Broken (compare to chapter 16 of full version, titled "heartbreak")

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 06:12:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11891709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: "The thought of coming home to you kept me going—that, and the small bit of hope I carried with me that if I were just brave enough to tell you, brave enough to push past yourI'm not gaydefenses, you might love me back. My thinking was flawed, though, because I was operating under a faulty premise. I assumed you didn't want me because I was aman. But it turns out that you just didn't wantme."





	Broken (compare to chapter 16 of full version, titled "heartbreak")

~*~

**Thursday, 28 March 2013**

It's half eight before Sherlock hears the front door shut and John's tread on the stairs. It's slow and plodding. Sherlock has been pacing, phone gripped in his hand, for almost two hours. Six milligrams of clonazepam have kept him from a full-blown panic attack, but it hasn't quenched the urge to leave the flat and find John.

John's cryptic text two hours ago was the last Sherlock heard from him. Sherlock has sent him a dozen texts since and received nothing. He even _rang_ John, needlessly as it turned out, since John failed to answer.

John walks into the flat, drops his bag, toes off his shoes, pulls off his jacket and hangs it up. He doesn't look at Sherlock.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock demands, sounding like an angry wife. "You have not responded to _any_ of my—"

John finally looks up at him, and Sherlock freezes. He takes in the red-rimmed eyes, the downturned mouth, the forward slope of the shoulders, the mussed hair, the pale cheeks, the furrowed brow.

"Oh," Sherlock says, blinking, his outrage arrested. "I see."

"Listen, I've had a shit day. Do you need me to look—?" John asks, then gestures vaguely at Sherlock's body.

"I'm perfectly well except for—" Sherlock says, and then pauses. John's a powder keg, clearly grieving, furious with Sherlock in addition to himself, and waiting for just one spark to go off.

"Except for—?" John prompts, turning his finger over a few times to encourage Sherlock to speak. (Even though he really doesn't want him to speak—that's perfectly clear to Sherlock.)

"Uh, nothing. Never mind. Perfectly well," Sherlock babbles. (Underneath his fear of setting John off is relief so strong he must fight to keep a grin off his face—Gerald is no longer The Boyfriend and Sherlock is that much closer to having John for himself in every way.)

"I'm gonna have a shower and then go to bed."

"Yes, of course," Sherlock says. "Completely understandable." _(Say it, you idiot, say it)_ "John, I'm sorry—for your—" Sherlock takes a deep breath and sighs. "I'm sorry." He leaves it at that.

John stares at Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock can see, playing out in John's eyes, the idea of making a fuss about it, what he's likely to gain, realizing he doesn't want to, and making the decision not to.

"Takes two," he says wearily.

John walks to his bedroom and shuts the door. The water starts up immediately (John's letting it warm up before getting in), then the opening and (slamming) shut of various drawers as he pulls out night clothes, the _en suite_ door opening and closing and then, finally, the scraping metal sound of the shower curtain rings as the curtain is drawn open and then closed. Then silence for seven seconds (other than the ambient sounds) and then—there it is—weeping.

John is standing in the shower weeping (God, no, _sobbing_ ), after having ended his relationship with Gerald, and Sherlock is at least partially if not completely at fault. Sherlock's very existence has always made it difficult for John to date _(if we dated each other, problem solved, but now isn't the time to point that out)_. It's not just that, however—John's infidelity is the cause of the breakup, and Sherlock is to blame for John's infidelity.

_If you put him in the position of being unfaithful to his boyfriend, he'll resent you for it._

_He's perfectly capable of saying no._

_I don't think he_ is _where you're concerned._

Sherlock feels the unpleasant, greasy weight of guilt settling in his stomach, but he can't be _sorry_ about the turn things have taken. He doesn't regret it, not even as he has to pinch himself through the light cotton of his pajama bottoms to keep himself from running to John to comfort him.

The shower goes on and on, as does John's tears. Sherlock is panting with the effort of keeping himself in his chair. Ten minutes, then twenty. After thirty, the water tank will run out of heated water and John will have to get out, but he doesn't, not until almost forty minutes have gone by. Sherlock has to take another clonazepam halfway through because his anxiety is so high, he's so tightly wound, he _wants so much_! Not just to comfort John, but to kiss him, to suck him, to fuck him, to erase Gerald from his body and his heart, and then he wants John to do all those things to him, for the same reason—to scrub clean Sherlock's defiled body and heart.

But he can't! He doesn't know _why_ he can't, he just knows that he can't. Ridiculous rules—even _Mycroft_ , for God's sake!

Sherlock hears the _en suite_ door open and then close, hears the muted rustling of John getting dressed, then the whisper of John's duvet being pulled back. John's mattress is memory foam and makes no noise _(perfect for rough fucking—no squeaking or banging the wall) (something to consider, much later—much, much later going by the depth of John's sorrow) (oh, John, so precious, more precious than anything)_ when he gets in except for the faintest sound of the platform legs scratching momentarily at the hardwood floor.

Sherlock waits, still in his chair, still fighting with himself to stay still. When he hears it again— _his John! Weeping_ ! —he can't fight it anymore. Silently, but quickly, he moves through the flat, turns the knob of John's bedroom door _(not locked—either trusts me, or doesn't care, or—even better,_ wants _me to come in)_ and, like a phantom, slips into bed behind John. Before John can react, Sherlock has wrapped John up, his longer body and limbs moving over and around John and then drawing him back, back against Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock—"

"Sh," Sherlock whispers. "I'm hugging you."

"This is bit more than a hug," John says, his voice congested, but there's a tiny breathy puff of what might be construed as an affectionate laugh (if you squint).

 _Oh, John_. "Yes, well. It's me."

John seems to accept this explanation, or is too tired to complain, but it takes him ages to relax against Sherlock's body. Sherlock counts out the minutes, his own eyes beginning to droop _(far too much clonazepam—mind is getting fuzzy now that the source of my anxiety is home safe—where he belongs)_.

Sherlock's face seems to be nuzzling against the back of John's neck, lightly snuffling, even, without his conscious permission, but he can't make himself stop, not when John seems to finally be relaxing _(does nuzzling someone cause the release of certain neurohormonal chemicals that help them relax?) (Evolutionary proof?) (Pair bonding, obviously.) (Very animalistic, though). (Don't care. John smells soooo nice.)_

Right before Sherlock falls asleep, he feels John's fingers _(small, delicate almost) (well, of course—a surgeon's hands) (thank God someone shot him or he'd be performing surgery out there where he might get shot) (stop thinking about that—it's irrelevant)_ curling over his own, larger fingers, knitting them together. Sherlock smiles, does some more nuzzling, and drifts off to a barbiturate (and John) fueled sleep.

~*~

**Friday, 29 March 2013**

Sherlock wakes to an empty bed. The digital clock on the bedside table says it's forty-five minutes after six in the morning. Sherlock strains his ears to listen, but the flat is silent. Surely John hasn't already left for work?

Sherlock gets out of bed, and pads into the kitchen. He needs to relieve himself, but if John is still home, he doesn't want to miss the chance to say goodbye. From the kitchen, the back of John's head is clearly visible in his chair. Reassured, Sherlock uses the loo and brushes his teeth, before going to greet John.

"Good morning," Sherlock says, not wanting to startle John, although the flushing of the toilet should have been enough of an alert that he was up and moving.

"Oh, hey," John says flatly, his nose still clearly congested.

Has he been crying again? Sherlock sits in his chair and looks at John, who fails to look back. Instead, John is staring at his hands, but even with his eyes lowered, Sherlock can see their hollow look, the smudged bruises beneath them.

Sherlock finds himself completely unprepared as to what to say or do. When he imagined John breaking up with Gerald, his imagination skipped over the part where John was sad over his breakup _(a week? a month? a year? oh, God, I can’t wait a year)_ and went straight to the part where John was in his arms, kissing him.

Sherlock sits silently, his mind sifting through examples of grief that don't involve the death of a loved one, so he can determine how long he should wait before cornering John and kissing him. Obviously, he can't ask John—even Sherlock knows that's beyond the pale. He watches John, who is also sitting silently, who, in fact, is beginning to look like a John-shaped thing in which John no longer resides. Suddenly, John seems far too still to be alive.

_(Could someone have tracked me here? No, Mycroft said Brankavich was dead.) (Danilo?) (Definitely dead. I saw the shot. Neat hole in the head. Didn't even bleed.) (Maybe it didn't bleed because it didn't kill him.) (Not John, please, no, too precious to be victim to Danilo)._

Sherlock is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. His heartbeat is thunderous… how can John not hear it? Sherlock rushes to the flat door and locks it, then does the same for the kitchen door. Then he runs back to his chair, but John is nowhere to be found. Sherlock's so pumped full of adrenaline that his toes and face are completely numb.

"John!" he shouts. " _John_!"

John suddenly appears between the kitchen and sitting room. Sherlock rushes him and pushes him down to the ground and hisses at him to be quiet. Doesn't John know how precious he is? How eagerly Sherlock's enemies would be to hurt John in retaliation, maybe even kill him? The very thought leaves him gasping for breath. His vision winnows down to John, black edging his face, like a vignette. John grips the nape of Sherlock's neck and pushes his head down between his legs. His other hand clasps Sherlock's wrist, two fingers taking his pulse.

Then John stands up, runs to the kitchen, comes back with something—a square of foil. He guides Sherlock back to his chair, pushes him down, peels the backing off the foil square, and holds it to Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock knows what he's supposed to do. He pushes his tongue out of his mouth _(like communion—a barbiturate communion) (John is a priest) (no, John is the God I worship)_ and touches his tongue to the tiny white pill inside, then pulls it back into his mouth, remembering not to swallow or chew, but let it dissolve on his tongue.

John crouches in front of Sherlock and his hand strokes up and down Sherlock's thigh in a soothing motion. He doesn't realize he's doing it. "All right?" John asks.

Now both John's hands are resting on Sherlock's knees, and he's using them to push himself upright, when Sherlock catches him around the hips and jerks John toward him. The pain leaves him groaning before he bites it off, and John, alarmed, bends closer. Sherlock takes the opportunity to pull John onto his lap, gritting his teeth against the pain.

John isn't as stout as he seems under all those layers of clothes, but he _was_ much stouter when Sherlock left him behind. He's lost weight _(four, no—three and a half kilos) (grief and less takeaway, more healthy meals) (stupid Gerald)_.

Once John is in his lap, Sherlock wraps his arms around him, squeezing him, caging him, really _(don't go)_ . Sherlock doesn't try to kiss John, though he wants to—he simply holds tight until his body stops shaking and his mind crawls its way out of the brume of anxiety. Vision and sound seem to assault him all at once, and he clings even tighter to John. Without realizing it, Sherlock's face is pressed against John's neck and he's whisper-moaning nine words repeatedly _you'realiveiloveyoutheycanthurtyou_ . John is whispering _I love you, too_ and _I'm here_ and _I know_ , but his words aren't running together.

This moment is, without a doubt, the most intimate he has ever shared with another human being. Sherlock has had sex with dozens of people (unless one's definition of sex is penetration only), but he has never felt more naked and vulnerable than he does now.

Their humid, whispered declarations against each other's skin taper off until they're both silent, relaxed against each other, as Baker Street comes to full life outside.

"I have to go to work," John murmurs, brushing his lips against Sherlock's temple.

Sherlock is on the verge of saying _please stay home forever, never work again unless it's with me_ , but he releases his hold on John instead, who climbs out of Sherlock's lap in a slightly amusing, uncoordinated way in the effort not to hurt him. John sets the blister pack of clonazepam on the desk.

"Don't take as much as you did yesterday, okay?" he says, trying for stern, but just looking weary. "If you start to panic, take _one_ and then wait thirty minutes before taking another. Orally disintegrating does not mean it works immediately, just that it gets into your _bloodstream_ immediately. It still takes a bit of time to work in your brain."

John checks his watch and starts to move towards the door, and Sherlock wants to beg him to stay, but he represses the urge. After John puts on his shoes and jacket, grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, he turns to Sherlock. He looks right into Sherlock's eyes and says, "If you need me, and you can't reach me, call Mrs. Hudson. Will you do that for me?"

Sherlock tries to pull his legs up into the chair in anticipation of a sulk, but he's in too much pain, and just ends up hunched over. John's face falls into concerned indecision—Sherlock can see him warring with himself _(go to work or call in? if he stays, I'm not sufficient distraction from the pain of his breakup, but his essential_ John-ness _—doctor/caretaker—soldier/protector—leader/decision-maker—is at war with itself, trying to decide to whom he owes the greater debt) (let it be me, please)_.

"You shouldn't have jerked me into your lap like that, you know," John says. He stops with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll be home right after work. It takes about thirty minutes for me to get home on the tube."  

With that, he's gone.

~*~

For John, the next two weeks go by in a blur of heartache and furtive tears unleashed only in the shower or at the darkest part of the night into his pillow to muffle the sounds. Whenever he's at work, he can forget about breaking up with Gerald, but he never stops worrying about Sherlock being home alone.

Sherlock's body is healing, but PTSD has him in a firm grip, and he always has a harder time of it on the days when John has to work. Sometimes, John will come home, and be greeted by a calm, confident Sherlock, only to watch helplessly as Sherlock gets slammed with a flashback an hour later, his terrified voice and the agony on his face leaving John awash in impotent rage towards the people responsible for Sherlock's suffering.

Sherlock always has nightmares on the nights after John's been at work, sometimes more than one, and can't fall back asleep unless John lies down with him. After a week of this, John decides to just allow Sherlock to sleep in his bed indefinitely, so they can both get some much-needed rest.

Every morning he wakes up in a cage of Sherlock's limbs, as though Sherlock is protecting him. Given what John has heard Sherlock scream during a flashback or shout out during a nightmare, it's clear that Sherlock's persecution at the hands of the guard, Danilo, weighs heavier in Sherlock's psyche than the other torture. He often has nightmares where Danilo rapes John, or forces Sherlock to.

The tension at home feels unbearable sometimes, even on the days John doesn't work or when Sherlock hasn't had a nightmare the night before. It's like the two of them can't relax, knowing that a flashback or panic attack can rip through their uneasy peace at any moment.

~*~

 

**Thursday, 11 April 2013**

After his breakup with Gerald, Rebecca and Cyril (who John is the closest to out of all of Gerald's friends) stay in touch with John daily and try to get him to open up about what happened. While John appreciates their concern, he can't say anything other than it was a joint decision to end their relationship, and eventually they stop, realizing they're just making things worse by trying to get him and Gerald to talk about it.

But Rebecca works with John, and even though their schedules only overlap on Thursdays, he knows that eventually she'll manage to corner him. One day, two weeks after John and Gerald break up, she succeeds in dragging him into an empty loo off the doctor's lounge before he can get away. She locks the door, and demands he tell her what the hell is going on between him and Gerald. John caves and tells her they broke up because he cheated. He expects Rebecca to be angry, but she's shocked instead.

"Who was it with?"

"Does it matter?" he asks, shrugging in defeat.

"Yes, it matters! I know you, John Watson, and I know you would never cheat on Gerald—or anyone else for that matter—unless it was with someone extremely important to you! Was it someone from your past? A _woman_?"

"No!" John says, offended, ironically, that she thinks he would cheat on Gerald in some kind of bid to reclaim his heterosexuality.

"It was someone I thought I'd never see again. He'd, uh—moved out of the country, and I thought it was permanent, but then he came back unexpectedly."

"Okay, but what's the big secret? Why won't you and Gerald say anything? I mean, who is this bloke, that you would break up with Gerald the minute he comes back to London?"

John sags against the wall and rubs his hand over his forehead in frustration. He's lonely and has nobody to talk to about what happened. (Obviously Sherlock isn't sympathetic about the breakup, and, of course, he has his own fears and sorrow to overcome)

"Okay, fine," John says finally. "He works with SIS. He was on a mission for them, out of the country. He's undercover—well, not _undercover_ necessarily, but he's in hiding. I'd never expected to see him again, and then he showed up. Gerald and I can't tell anyone, we made a sort of nondisclosure agreement, and that's why we've been shifty about it. His location has to remain secret."

"What's his name?" she asks, but when John opens his mouth and starts shaking his head, she interrupts him. "Never mind, forget I asked. Look—do you love this man?"

"I do," John says simply, the answer written in his very bones it seems.

"And I take it you were still in love with him when you met Gerald?"

"Yes. Madly in love, it turns out. I wouldn't have started anything with Gerald otherwise. It's not a matter of using Gerald as a replacement for this man. He was never coming back, and I had no idea where to find him even if that had been an option. So, I moved on and fell in love with Gerald, and I would've spent the rest of my life with him. I know this sounds hokey, but Sh—I mean this other man, well—he’s the love of my life, you know?"

Rebecca smiles, her eyes wistful. She reaches out and wraps John in her arms, her soft woman's body fitting against him in a way that feels strange after so long in a man's arms. John has hugged Rebecca on multiple occasions, but those were quick _how are you_ hugs or _it's good to see you_ hugs. This is an embrace, a clinging, protective hold that tries to express in touch what feels too difficult to say in person— _you're hurting, and I love you, and I'll do anything I can to ease this pain from your heart_. John finds himself teary when she pulls away, and Rebecca is as well.

"You're a good man," she says quietly. "I know how much you love Gerald, how much it must hurt to be without him, but if you're in love with this other man then you need to _be_ with him—I mean, that's gonna happen, right?

"I hope so," he says with a rueful grin.

"None of us would want to stand in the way of that—not even Gerald. We're all sentimental fools who never quite grew up, and we all believe in true love. It'll take a while, but you and Gerald will be friends again, because there's too much love and affection there. Plus, it won't be fun getting together with everyone if you and Gerald glare at each other the whole time."

John laughs, surprising himself—it's the first time he's laughed in days. But then his pager beeps and buzzes against his hipbone where it's tucked into his scrub bottoms.

"Fuck," he says, pulling it out and checking the message.

John frowns at the digital words crawling along the small screen of the pager. "It says fire—primary school—"

At that, Rebecca's pager goes off as well. "Uh-oh," Rebecca says, grimacing at John, who echoes her dread.

For the rest of the day, John is kept busy treating children caught in a fire at their school. He doesn't have time to think about Sherlock, or Gerald, or anything beyond treating each small victim.

~*~

When John finally makes his way home, exhausted, sweaty, and smelling like ashes, he finds Mycroft in his chair and Sherlock in a suit for the first time since his return home. (And _Christ,_ doesn't he look bloody gorgeous!)

"John!" Sherlock cries, jumping out of his own chair. John winces with him, knowing it must have hurt his ribs. "Mycroft has good news!"

"I could use some of that," John mutters, kicking off his shoes, hanging up his jacket, and dropping his bag on the floor. "I'm off to have a shower"

"You can't!" Sherlock says, running to intercept him. He grabs John by the shoulders. "This is too important!"

"Give me fifteen minutes, Sherlock, please," John says, wiggling his way out of Sherlock's grip. "I'll be able to focus better if you let me take a shower first. I've had a shit day."

Sherlock drops his hands to his sides and steps back, his demeanor suddenly cool. "You seem to have a lot of those lately," he says stiffly.

"A lot of what?" John asks absentmindedly, leaning against the counter so he can bend over and take off his socks.

"A lot of _shit days_ ," Sherlock says, with a sneer.

John's face whips up, and he tilts his head slightly to the left, the beginning of a smile-that's-not-a-smile on his lips. "Yeah, I have. That happens when you go through a breakup."

Sherlock puts his hands on his hips. "How long—"

He's interrupted by Mycroft loudly clearing his throat. "We can discuss the press conference on Monday, when John will be home all day. I'll be off then. Goodnight, Sherlock—John," he says, nodding to each in turn.

John makes for the shower while Sherlock's distracted by brotherly staring contest between himself and Mycroft.

~*~

"I'm starving," John says, when he comes out of the shower. "What about you?"

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, the ankle of one leg over the knee of the other, his fingers pressed together just under his lips. He's removed his suit jacket, and John is again reminded how strikingly handsome Sherlock is. He's gained weight and healed quickly, and in less than a month he looks almost like his old self, except his hair is shorter than John's ever seen it although it's finally grown out enough to curl. It feels like he's looking down his nose at John, even though Sherlock is the one sitting down.

"Don't you want to know what the good news is?" Sherlock asks, widening his eyes in petulant expectation.

John sighs. "Yeah, I do, I just would like to eat first before I have to deal with anything else."

"Fine, order something," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. "Although now what I have to tell you will be anticlimactic so I might as well just say it. NSY is holding a press conference on the twenty-sixth to clear my name. There, see? That's why I wanted to tell you right away."

"Oh, that is good news!" John says, nodding his head. "Well done, you."

John's genuine enthusiasm mollifies Sherlock, although he's still disappointed that John isn't as excited as he is.

"Angelo's will deliver here," John says. "Would you like Italian?"

"When did they start delivering?"

"Well, it's only me— _us_ —they deliver to."

"How did you manage that?" Sherlock asks, eyes narrowed at John in surprise.

" _I_ didn't manage anything. _You_ died, and Angelo sent food around a couple weeks after the papers reported your _fake_ death. I think he was really just checking up on me."

At the reminder of Sherlock's deception, John tenses visibly and Sherlock shrinks into himself in frustrated guilt. He knows if he apologizes, John will just tell him apologies are useless (something _Sherlock_ taught him, unfortunately), and run to his bedroom to avoid a row with Sherlock, who is beginning to _hope_ for a row. Now that Sherlock has gained weight, and his bruises have faded, John's concern has diminished considerably, making room for his anger and resentment.

"Well?" John asks impatiently.

"Whatever you decide is fine, John," Sherlock says, trying to be accommodating.

John huffs in irritation, picks up his phone, and dials Angelo's restaurant. Thirty minutes later, John and Sherlock have enough food to feed three times as many people.

Sherlock goes into the kitchen to help John lay out the food. They work together in silence, their bodies comfortable in close quarter even if their hearts are divided. When they sit down at the table, they eat in silence for several long moments. Sherlock surreptitiously watches John, whose eyes never rise above the level of his plate. Sherlock endures the weighted atmosphere until he feels sick with uncertainty, and can't stand the silence any longer.

"I would expect you to be happier about the press conference," he says. "After all, it means I'll be out of your hair."

"Bit late for that," John says, his eyes on his plate. He takes a bite of stuffed mushroom, and doesn't bother to look up at Sherlock.

"Let me guess—I ruined your life first by faking my death, and ruined it again by returning! Is that it? You wish I had _stayed_ dead?"

John's chair scrapes across the floor as he launches to his feet. "I wish you hadn't _lied_ to me in the first place!"

Sherlock gets to his feet, too, and begins stalking towards John. "I went through _hell_ to protect you."

"If you'd have let me go with you, I would've kept you from it! And if I couldn't keep you from it, you _know_ I would've gone through hell _with you_!" John shouts, stabbing his finger in Sherlock's face.

"What do you want me to do?" Sherlock cries, throwing his arms wide. "How many ways can I say I'm sorry to have kept you in the dark? Everything I did was to protect _you_!"

"It wasn't _just_ me. You told me Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were targeted as well."

"Oh, is that it, then? You wouldn't be so angry if I'd done it _only_ for you? If you must know the details, here they are—" Sherlock says, pacing up and down the kitchen floor. "Their potential killers were found and dispatched that same day, and Mycroft's agents didn't find anyone who'd been tasked with taking their place.

"But _you_ , John— _you_ were being hunted, not just by the initial sniper, who Mycroft's agents took out, but by the one responsible for you if the first one died, and then another when _that_ one died, like murderous Russian dolls. It was only after every layer was peeled back did we see the scope of Moriarty’s plan to destroy me. I'll give you one guess as to how he planned to do that. No?"

John stands in front of the kitchen window, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his nostrils flaring, and his jaw clenched painfully tight.

"Do you remember Moriarty's promise at the pool? He said he would _burn the heart out of me_ . My _heart_ , John—the thing I care about most in the world. Not my reputation—I don't care what people think unless it keeps me from solving interesting puzzles. No, you see, _my_ heart was—and is—you, and Moriarty had gone to great lengths to ensure that you would always be in danger unless I remained dead. No matter how many enemy agents Mycroft found, and destroyed, there was always another one to take his place.

"You are my heart and Moriarty knew it, even before I did. Everything I did was only because I wanted to protect you."

"And who protects me from _you_ , eh? You have sabotaged everything in my life that wasn't to do with you, and my relationship with Gerald was no different. Do you know what he said when I went to see him that night? He said the minute you walked in the door, what he and I had was over, that it never stood a chance once you showed up. Why, Sherlock? _Why_ did you kiss me that first night? And the rest of it—the hand job, the—you _knew_ I was with someone. Why do you _always_ have to sabotage everything in my life that isn't about _you!_ " John yells

"I _told_ you why! I'm _in love with you_ !" Sherlock yells back, his voice breaking at the end. "While I was out there, alone, away from home, from _you_ , I made a vow to _myself_ not to waste another chance to tell you because I'd been too much of a coward to tell you before I went away. I was afraid of losing your friendship if I confessed how I felt because you took every opportunity to announce that you weren't gay, and that we weren't a couple. You were so terrified someone might think you liked _cock_ so I kept my feelings to myself, _even_ after I realized you were attracted to me.

"The thought of coming home to you kept me going—that, and the small bit of hope I carried with me that, if I were just brave enough to tell you, brave enough to push past your _I'm not gay_ defenses, you might love me back. My thinking was flawed, though, because I was operating under a faulty premise. I assumed you didn't want me because I was a _man._ But it turns out that you just didn't want _me_."

Sherlock's breath hitches, and he swallows the need to cry. The tears spill over regardless, and Sherlock looks down at the floor, trying to control himself. John says his name, gently, and that makes the ache in Sherlock's chest even stronger.

"I—if I could go back to that night," Sherlock says quietly, hating the way his voice cracks and breaks. "I would've done it differently. I was greedy, and desperate, and _so_ _very_ _hurt_ that you could love him, but not me. So, I—I just wanted to grab what I could while your pity for me would mean you wouldn't stop me. I didn't _consciously_ attempt to sabotage your relationship with Gerald, and if there's any chance you can reconcile with him, I urge you to take that chance. I won't get in the way anymore."

John says his name again, just a whisper, but Sherlock shakes his head, slinging tears as he does, crying so hard he feels dehydrated, and staggers away from a stunned John. He flees to the upstairs bedroom. He leaves the overhead light and the lamp on, afraid of the dark, but he closes the door, the first time he's done so since coming home. He crawls under the covers and pulls them over his head, something he hasn't done since childhood. This time the monster he's hiding from is the hollowness in his chest where the hope for John's love used to be.

There's only one thing for it now, if he's to ensure he doesn't put himself in the way of John's happiness—he must cure himself of this inappropriate attachment to John.

_Send me the information for the therapist you found. —SH_

_If I may ask, what changed your mind? —MH_

_I took your advice and asked John his opinion. It was enlightening. —SH_

_Very well. I'll have him call you tomorrow. What time? —MH_

_10 in the morning. —SH_

_Consider it done. —MH_

_~*~_

**Author's Note:**

> To my wonderful betas, Jenn and Katie, who constantly surprise me with their intuitive grasp of the story I'm trying to tell... and then give me the inspiration to tell it.
> 
> Bear with me, dear readers, because I promise that I'll deliver our boys in love... and sexytimes, too.


End file.
